


Lost Control

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Books) [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Hallucinations, Mind Control, Torture, Trauma, accidental abuse, unspecified monster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Geralt is bitten by the Monster of the Week, leaving him angry and violent. Dandelion is not amused.Based vaguely off the trance inThe Last Wishwhere Geralt beats up a bunch of villagers, I wondered what might happen if he went after Dandelion instead.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (Books) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624276
Comments: 48
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a similar story - [Mind Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042591/chapters/52607248) \- for the Netflix characters, but I wanted to rewrite it with the book versions of Geralt and Dandelion because it would go much differently.

Geralt rubbed his head, struggling to bring things back into focus. The camp was a mess, their things were strewn wildly about, as though there’d been a fight of some sort or an attempted robbery. 

Lying at the center of all of it, propped on a log and strumming his lute, was Dandelion. If it wasn’t for a black eye, he’d have looked completely normal. “Ah!” he said cheerfully. “Geralt, you’re awake!”

Geralt pushed himself to his feet with a groan. “The monster-” he began.

“Dead,” promised the poet. "I believe you left the head over that way somewhere." He nodded his head off toward the wood. 

“I think I hit my head.” He stumbled across the clearing, falling to his knees beside Dandelion, cupping his friend’s face and rubbing his thumb over the bruise. The poet winced slightly but didn't pull away. "I don't remember anything." He remembered leaving Dandelion in the camp, remembered the minstrel sulking and whining about not getting to see the monster, but he couldn't recall what had happened to his friend's face. 

“You were bitten,” said Dandelion, sitting his lute aside. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you while you slept it off.”

“Bitten?” Geralt repeated, still studying the bruise on his friend’s cheek. “Their bites contain hallucinogenic properties, not anesthetics-”

“I never said the bite put you to sleep, now did I?” Dandelion smiled at him but said nothing else. "And yes, you did hit your head. Or rather, you were hit on the head."

The Witcher leaned closer, almost burying his face in Dandelion’s hair, and sniffed. “I smell blood.” He could see it as well, barely visible on Dandelion’s collar where it had flecked onto his shirt.

The poet followed his eyes, glancing down at his own collar with a raised eyebrow. “Honestly Geralt, it might be yours, although, it is most likely mine.”

Geralt’s blood ran cold. “Did the monster get you?”

“In a way.”

He took a deep breath through his nose. Dandelion didn’t smell like a monster, only sweat, blood, and Geralt himself. The smell of the Witcher was all over him, as though they’d been rolling together.

Geralt released his collar and looked up. “What did I do?”


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt had insisted that he stay behind, despite Dandelion whining and pleading. Finally, he’d given in - although he’d put on a show of sulking - and returned to the campfire, settling down beside it to wait. He made himself comfortable, shrugging off his beaded jacket and setting it aside so he could stretch out on the ground without fear of muddying it, strumming his fingers over his lute.

He sat up at the sound of footsteps. “Geralt?” he called.

The Witcher was standing just at the edge of the ring of firelight, one hand resting on a tree, panting slightly. “Are you hurt?” Dandelion pushed himself to his feet, trotting closer. He had only just reached his friend when he was suddenly struck in the stomach.

Dandelion stumbled back with a surprised cry, convinced, for a fleeting moment, that they were under attack. But there was no one else there. He sunk to the ground, holding one hand against his stomach. _Geralt had hit him_.

They roughhoused at times, and Geralt often threatened to whip him (and had carried through on those threats on a few occasions), but as he sat on the ground, gasping for breath, Dandelion was certain he’d never been hit in such a way by his friend. No. That punch had packed a lot of intention behind it. Intention to harm, that was.

“Geralt, what are you-” He was knocked onto his back by a blow to his face that was certain to leave him with a black eye, then grabbed by one hand and dragged across the clearing. “Geralt, I think you’re hallucinating! Let’s talk about this-”

“I’m not hallucinating,” snapped the Witcher, speaking finally. “The bites don’t cause hallucinations, they let your true emotions show.”

For a split second Dandelion believed him, then he threw back his head and laughed. “Apparently it makes you lie! You don’t hate me, Geralt!”

The wrist he’d been pulled by was suddenly released, and he sat up, wincing and rubbing at it. Geralt was kneeling by the fire, taking deep breaths, his shoulders shaking. “That’s it,” Dandelion soothed, “let it out, you’ll be fine-”

Suddenly Geralt turned to face him, a burning log from the fire in his hand. “Come here.”

“Oh fuck.” Dandelion shoved himself to his feet, stumbling back from Geralt. “Are you intending to hit me with that? I’d really rather you didn’t-” When the Witcher continued advancing he shouted, “Geralt that is on fire!”

He managed to knock the wood out of the Witcher’s hand, but unfortunately, Geralt got a firm grip on him, holding him by his throat and shoving him back against a tree.

Dandelion hissed as the bark scraped his bare back. Then he was grabbed, turned around, and shoved against the tree. He grabbed at it, using the lower branches to support himself, the bark cutting through his fingers.

Geralt was talking, but his voice was so low and gravely that Dandelion could only understand snatches of it. He caught enough to realize Geralt was removing his belt, planning to use it on him. “Shit,” the troubadour hissed.

Pain unlike anything he’d ever known exploded across his back. He was almost certain he saw stars.

“You know Geralt,” he said, gasping between strikes. “I- I had always thought you were pulling your punches - AH - when you belted me, but - AH - now I’m certain.”

Geralt seemed to pause, most likely to catch his breath, and Dandelion took it as an opportunity to flee, ducking under the Witcher’s arm and bolting across the clearing to Geralt’s bags, tearing through them, tossing things out at random until he located the vial he needed. “Ah ha!”

The enraged Witcher had reached him by that point, and tackled him, snarling and sinking teeth into his shoulder. Dandelion gasped in pain, but managed to shield the bottle against his chest, preventing it from breaking.

Hands like claws raked down his back and Dandelion cried out. “Geralt- are you trying to fuck me?” He managed to roll out from under the man, glowering at him. “You should know, I require at least a bit of foreplay. Preferably, a lot, actually, and whipping me- alright, I’ve certainly considered that foreplay before.”

Geralt’s knee connected with his groin and he screamed. The Witcher flinched at the noise and Dandelion was again was able to wriggle out from under him, back toward the fire.

He grabbed the log Geralt had waved at him earlier, although it was no longer flaming. Before he could lose his nerve, Dandelion slammed it onto Geralt’s temple.

The Witcher stumbled, seeming disoriented, but it didn’t knock him out. No matter. Dandelion shot to his feet, grabbing Geralt’s mouth and forcing it open. He poured the drug into his throat, then kneaded his fingers roughly over his throat until he swallowed. 

The next thing he knew, he was on his back, dangerously close to the fire, and there were teeth sinking into his neck. His wrists were pinned above his head in Geralt’s much larger, much stronger hands.

When Geralt pulled off his neck, he was fairly certain a chunk of skin went with him. “Are you trying to eat me?” he demanded. “Honestly, Geralt? I preferred the fucking.”

Geralt was on him again in a heartbeat, sinking his teeth into the other side of his neck. It seemed Dandelion had his answer.

“Geralt,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears of pain. “Geralt my oldest and dearest friend, if you kill me, you will never be able to live with yourself.” The teeth seemed to loosen, then were withdrawn entirely.

Tears stained his cheeks and he opened his eyes, but Geralt stared back at him with no recognition whatsoever. “Please,” Dandelion begged. “Don’t do this to yourself, Geralt.” 

Irritation flashed in the Witcher’s eyes and grabbed a fistful of Dandelion’s hair, twisting his head back so he could the jugular on his next attack. “Geralt!” he sobbed.

The Witcher’s fingers went limp, and he fell on top of Dandelion with a snore. “Oh thank fuck,” the bard said, rubbing his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

He crawled out from under him after a moment, wincing as every muscle in his body moaned with pain. “Oh my arse,” he moaned, leaning his forehead against the ground. “I’m writing a ballad about this, and I’m calling it _The Ballad of the Witcher, a Pain in the Arse_. Clever, don’t you think?”

Geralt snored.

Dandelion dug through Geralt’s bags again, finding clean cloths that he kept for bandages, and a strong alcohol that - while foul-tasting - was perfect for cleaning out wounds.

He held a bandage to his neck. “You’re going to stitch this for me you asshole,” he grumbled, giving Geralt’s unconscious body a glare. Until Geralt was awake, the best he could do was clean his own wounds and try not to bleed out.

“You know Geralt,” he said, sitting down and leaning against a log. “You came very close to waking up next to a dead body, and how would you feel about that?” Truth to be told, Geralt would have quite possibly thrown himself into the nearest lake. Dandelion shivered at the thought.

He pulled on a shirt, to keep his wounds clean and the bandages in place until Geralt could fix them, then he picked up his lute, leaning back.

Nothing, poison, venom, even alcohol, lasted terribly long in Geralt’s system, and soon the Witcher was groaning, rubbing at his eyes. “Ah!” Dandelion called cheerfully, praying that the venom had worn off. “Geralt! You’re awake!”

“The monster-” He stumbled toward Dandelion, and for a moment the poet wondered if he was still enchanted, but there was concern in his eyes, and he seemed confused rather than angry.

“Dead,” Dandelion promised. "I believe you left the head over that way somewhere." It had better be because without the head they wouldn’t get paid, and if he didn’t get paid for this, he was going to be livid.

“I think I hit my head.” Geralt fell to his knees beside him and Dandelion let him cup his face and touch the bruise, enjoying the gentle touch, even if there was a bit of discomfort under it. “I don’t remember anything.”

“You were bitten,” he said, setting his lute aside. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you while you slept it off.”

“Bitten? Their bites contain hallucinogenic properties, not anesthetics-”

“I never said the bite put you to sleep, now did I?” Dandelion gave him a cocky smile, still rather proud of himself for outsmarting the Witcher. "And yes, you did hit your head. Or rather, you were hit on the head."

He’d long since grown used to Geralt sniffing him. It was a Witcher thing, he supposed, that he was able to use to tell if Dandelion was ill, afraid, happy, or any number of things. So when Geralt inhaled sharply, he said nothing, even as the Witcher frowned. “I smell blood.”

Dandelion followed Geralt’s eyes to his collar, frowning and rather disappointed to see blood flecking the shirt. Hopefully, it would wash out. “Honestly Geralt, it might be yours, although, it is most likely mine.”

“Did the monster get you?”

He considered his reply, slowly saying, “In a way.”

Geralt sniffed him again, then went very still, releasing his shirt. “What did I do?”


End file.
